The Cat and the Canary
by Koichama
Summary: Kurogane, Private Eye. No matter how hard the egg was, I could crack it. I just didn't suspect having such a hard egg to crack as Fay D. Flourite. The question remains, "Is he victim or suspect, or some odd combination of both?" AU Kurofai.


Warnings: Mild Language, suggestive dialogue, black and white imagery, First Person POV, misuse of the French language, and mature themes.

oOo

Somewhere between disorder and law, right and wrong, crime and punishment, there was someone willing to make sense of it all, a man who would shoulder the heavy weight of justice and tip the scales in favor of the law. There was a man in this city willing to filter the rubbish and expose the rats in this maze of crime. I was that man, Youou Kurogane, Private Eye.

I was your average law enforcer. I liked my coffee black, my weekends off, and my pastrami on rye, hold the mayo, except, I had an above average paranoia. Everyone had secrets, deep, dark, perhaps forgotten, misdeeds. It did not matter. I could uncover any skeleton, no matter how deep in the closet. There was no case or person too complicated for this private eye to handle. Unfortunately, I could not predict the curveball fate threw in my direction, a ball that almost hit me over the head like some cosmic foul, a ball autographed by Fay D. Flourite.

Fay D. Flourite – even his name was an enigma. It was not pronounced how you would expect. The first name rhymed with, "lie." I had no idea where the infliction came from. His last name was less cumbersome than he was, Flourite, like the mineral in toothpaste. Good dental hygiene was important, but that was not the point. It was too simple, too clean of a surname for a troublesome character like him. I had absolutely no idea what the "D." stood for. This man, this puzzle, was my latest client and my latest suspect, a villain and damsel.

The day I met him was as unmemorable as any other. Gray clouds blanketed the sky, casting gray shadows, trying to make the city as gray as itself. It showered that day. A few drops of rain pinged against my office window, reminding me how miserable it was outside my cozy office. Despite the unwelcoming weather, people still dotted the cobblestone streets, sheltered under black umbrellas. Gray seemed to seep into my office.

We all lived in black and white here.

The Grandfather clock in the corner was minutes away from announcing lunch. Normally I would be walking into the local deli, but my schedule for today was unusual. Speaking of unusual…

"Mr. Kurogane," my assistant chimed through the intercom. Miss Tomoyo Daidouji, half the age of your average secretary with twice the competence, she ran the office. At times, I believed my name was printed on the door for purely ceremonial reasons. Miss Tomoyo was the real gears of the detective agency. Everything ran smoothly because of her, potential clients were screened, backgrounds checked, appointments scheduled. Soon, she would have the business running so smoothly that I would become unnecessary. I needed to watch my back and my job around her.

She informed, "Your twelve 'o'clock is here, and I will take my lunch break at the Deli. I'll order the usual."

"Send him in, and the usual's fine." Pastrami on rye, that woman sure knew how to run a detective agency, which was why the latest client concerned me. It looked like Miss Tomoyo did not do her research thoroughly. Either that or she was sending me in the case blindfolded and dizzy just for her own amusement. I believed the latter. Miss Tomoyo was always meticulous, but she did possess a small impish side. Was this her way of telling me work more? I had little time to ponder that quandary, though.

My posture was unusual rigid as Mr. Flourite stepped in. Something about the man stood out in the drab setting. If a sunny morning could walk and talk, and for all intent and purpose appear human, that morning would be this man. He could not look any more bright and cheery; it would be criminal, and as a detective, I could not abide by that. Sunny hair swept carelessly over the side of his face. I could tell immediately that he was a dandy: fine arched eyebrows, delicate bone structure, and an angled chin. If the soul could really be viewed through the eyes, his soul was blue, dark, and half-lidded. Some might have called them bedroom eyes. I did not allow myself to think that far. To sum it up, Mr. Flourite was unremarkably stunning.

Fay Flourite strolled into the office with illegally long legs. The tip of his folded cane clicked on the ground with every step. His stride was small but decisive. It looked like his feet planned the path and his body followed. This was clear evidence of a scattered mind.

With a nod in my direction, he greeted, "It's a pleasure, Mr. Detective." The lilt in his voice suggested that he considered himself on familiar terms with me, but I was already familiar with his type, a ticking time bomb in a pretty box. Anyone who could mock a detective had no respect for authority.

"Take a seat," I told my client. I made a show of shuffling some papers around. I was a busy detective, and though I had little work at the time, he needed to realize exactly how busy I was. Pleasantries were pointless in this business. We detectives did our work, regardless of manners. This was not a social gathering or a cocktail party. It was serious business. Cute little titles like "Mr. Detective" did not bug someone as serious and professional as me. I would prove that by ignoring him completely until he called me properly. Look, it clearly read, in gold lettering, on the door, "Mr. Kurogane, Private Eye"! Perhaps, if he had the decency to take off his fedora before entering an establishment, he would have seen it! It was not as if I was concerned with what he called me, though. The mere thought that he had any effect on me was ludicrous!

I peered over my desk, which coincidently had my full name perched on top of it. "Mr. Flourite," I inquired. He smiled in return. I paused, stuck on what to say next. All I had was a name to work with. Miss Tomoyo left me in the middle of this case with no rope to climb out.

"You're most likely aware of my situation, Mr. Private Eye."

"Actually I'm not," I corrected. He had the upper hand, at least at the moment. Still, I was strict. I had to be with cases like his... It set the mood.

Fay's smile faltered but did not quite disappear. I had the impression that he never took off that complacent mask. He was hiding something; of that, I was certain. The worn down fences always received the most whitewash.

"You see Mr. Detective."

"Kurogane."

"Pardon?"

"Ku-ro-ga-ne," I repeated. My name and my profession was not a game. Could he not understand that I was a silent defender of justice? My name was synonymous with professionalism.

"Are you bothered?" He asked with a voice like wind-chime. His sincerity was as fake as the gold lettering on my nameplate.

"No." I shuffled some more papers. His voice was not as charming as he believed. I've heard smoother tongues, ones that said my name properly.

"Good because I thought you..."

"I'm not!" I said as I slammed the documents in the bin. I was done with whatever paperwork I was filling out. I really didn't read the damn things. Real detective work happened in the streets, anyway, not behind some stuffy desk. Besides, Miss Tomoyo would more than likely file them correctly.

He hummed. That small patient noise grated my nerves. This Mr. Flourite was an odd character. In the immensely short time I have been acquainted with him, I could not shake off that feeling of complete unreality. He was a creature that looked capable of sprouting wings and flying out of this city, like some fruity toucan.

"Well?" I said to break the melodic humming.

"Oh, I'm just waiting for my detective to detail me on what I'm supposed to do. I am new at this whole detective business, Kuro-monsieur, so…"

"Fine," I interrupted before the man could finish. Blue eyes gazed at me, sparkling with barely controlled amusement. What patterns of thought were behind this man's reasoning; what made him tick? "Fill me in on all the details. Then I'll decide whether or not I want to take the case," I said.

"I just want you to know that money is not the issue," he said, tapping the cane on the floor, "I am the sole proprietor of Flourite Suites." Although I had made the connection between the hotel and Mr. Flourite, I had not guessed that he was that Flourite. What crisis could push this preened bird from his gilded cage? "A small incentive Mr. Detective, as I am able and willing to let you take advantage of me." Not even a detective could crack the mystery behind that cryptic suggestion.

Troubled shakes rattled through his cane while he controlled himself. "I believe someone is trying to kill me. I cannot prove it, though. Accidents happen around me Mr. Detective. Last week I was lucky to sprain my ankle when an ill-timed pianoforte tumbled down the stairs. I had jumped out of the way, but not being the most graceful person…." His cane tapped against his ankle.

"What makes you believe that these accidents are intentional?"

It was incorrect to say this man smiled, as that cursed smile never left his face. It changed though, like the sight of a statue from a different perspective. The shadow overplayed the light, and the angle sharpened. "You think I am paranoid. I do not blame you Mr. Eye. At first, I believed it was all in my imagination. I guarded my suspicions very prudently, that is until…. The rumors…, of course I could not believe at first…I could not."

Tapping my pen against the desk, I hurried, "Well, what is it?" I was not a man for exposition; just give me the skinny. In no time, I would discover the details for myself, everything including the floor schematics for the dressing room.

"Well, Kuro-conte, you must promise not to laugh," Flourite said, his body leaning forward as if to draw me into some secret huddle. Smirking and leaning against my chair, I waited. This man was not meant to be taken seriously. He telling me not to laugh seemed like a prelude to a punch line. I could not quell the smug feeling that came as I realized the power had shifted back in my control. The whole investigation hinged on my reaction to his case.

"I have a doppelganger," he said, whispered as though he were relating a ghost story.

"A what?" I did not laugh. However, I could not properly internalize what he just said. I knew what a doppelganger was, though it was a term barely used on the street. "Could you repeat that?" I asked, checking my ear for lint.

"A doppelganger, a copy, a clone, a mimic, an imposter," he clarified; his voice chimed the terms one after another. "I have one, and he does not like me, it seems. When I am at lounge, he is on the 34th floor. One minute, he is there, and then he just disappears. I have witness reports, staff, guests, saying they have just seen me or talked to me, but I was not there. I have seen him once myself, from the street, a man who matched my height and hair color on the balcony, who just… leaps off the edge but disappears before he hits the ground." He mimed the motion, his hand fluttering to his side like an injured butterfly. "It's a rather morbid thing to see yourself…die." This man loved his words. With so many words, he tried to cover the unnatural pauses in his story. He barely left any room for me to interrupt, but I found my moment when he took a deep breath.

"You actually think there is a doppelganger?"

"Yes."

"And it steals your image and commits suicide?"

"Can't get anything past you, Kuro-conte." He smiled, if possibly, wider. I gritted my teeth and continued with my line of questioning. He was not allowed to steer the direction of conversation away with silly responses and sillier names.

"Have you ever witnessed this alleged doppelganger?" I questioned him. Picking apart every tiny detail of his story, even though his tale sounded mostly fictional – What was next a fairy in the parlor? – I looked for any suspicious inconsistencies. Determined, as I was to find fault with the man, I could not help but notice the slight shift with his expression; eyes darted out the window for the briefest moment as he shifted his cane. This man was accustomed to secrets. Only the most intuitive of observers could see that he was hiding something. Whether or not that had any relevance had yet to be seen.

"I have not seen him personally," he revealed, "But I have people to do that for me. There are some areas in the hotel I have not visited since I was twelve."

"You would think that this would be a problem you should personally see for yourself," I said. A challenge? An accusation? A random observation?

He chuckled, shifting his position so he could rest his chin on his palm. "I am not a brave man," he told me.

"Afraid of ghost stories? I have real cases to attend to." The only way I would follow this case was if I was dragged in a burlap sack. As it was, Mr. Flourite was lucky that I was not a funny man. Had he taken his case to another detective, he would have thrown him out like some common waif.

"Mr. Detective. I am desperate," he claimed. Desperate? I could not say I felt the same way. I was still receiving benefits from my last client, "The Case of the Missing Badger." It was the mistress, always the mistress. I needed this case as much as I needed a knife in the back.

"I refuse to investigate ghosts," I told him with the same finality I ordered my deli sandwich, pastrami on rye, hold the mayo, and I mean no mayo. Speaking of, my prompt secretary was late from her lunch break.

He bowed his head, the fedora shadowing his eyes. However, he never lost his smile. "I only came to you, Mr. Detective," he said in a voice that was unlike the one he used before; it was soft, rhythmic, and sultry, a siren's call with false promises, "because they say you are the best." He was good; that was Class A material. Perhaps, I would have fallen for his hollow flattery and low tenor if I were any less of a detective. However, he was not the first well-dressed vixen with an agenda to stroll into my office, and I hesitated to admit this, he would not be the last.

"I am sorry," I said, words hollow like so many other condolences. Well, that was life. Sometimes, there was no help, only empty sympathy ringing hopelessly like change cluttering down a gutter. "I think we have nothing more to discuss, Mr. Flourite," Standing up, I showed him to the door.

He flashed one last smile, tapped his cane one last time against my hardwood floors, and stood up with the genteel air of a man who was accustomed to loss. "Well, Kuro-monsieur, I believe we have discussed all that can be discussed. I am in the yellow pages, if you need to look me up." He finished the last sentence in a ghost of a whisper that sent bumps down my spine. Perhaps I had just turned away the biggest challenge since I received my badge, or perhaps I just averted a major disaster. Either way, Fay D. Flourite strolled out of my office at a half-hour past noon, a whistle trailing him like a lost bird.

Forty minutes past noon, Miss Tomoyo poked her head into my office, a bemused expression on her pallid face. Without invitation, she stepped across the threshold; the smell of toasted wheat followed. Her heels clicked in dull reminiscence of Mr. Flourite's cane. This doll dressed as if she walked straight off a mannequin stand. This was a girl, who took precaution in her appearance and how others perceived her, every feature giving her a deceptive, innocent quality. Crowning her head was a red beret adorned with the longest, puffiest feather. Long, black tresses of hair framed her to her knees, fluttering and waving as she walked. Dark eyes scrutinized my person carefully; if she were not so accepting of others faults, she would make an admirable detective.

I pretended to reorganize my papers, a detective's work was never done, as she talked. "That was awfully fast of you." Her voice carried the softest note of suspicion.

"Well, the case was a lost cause to begin with," I said evenly, pushing the odd man from my thoughts. "Still, I am sure there was a reason for you to schedule that case," I added cautiously, as Miss Tomoyo was gracious enough to stay as my secretary after her predecessors quit, intimidated by the gritty work of the detective business no doubt. This girl was made of something tougher than the usual office girl.

"No…," she said, lost in her own thoughts. A small index finger tapped her chin. She contemplated her next sentence, as if she was struggling with a foreign concept. "That is not what I meant."

She walked around the room, heels clicking, the bag clutched in one hand. My eyes followed her; an ominous foreboding descended in the air like a fog. It hovered in the area, masking the room in dense uncertainty. Something was not right; I could feel it, as sure as I felt it would rain tomorrow. She leaned over the sill of the open window, almost hypnotically. My heart thumped madly in my chest as memories of the 'Doppelganger' tale leaped into the forefront of my thoughts. I jolted from my chair, ready to leap over the desk and yank her away as if to snatch her from the jaws of a lion, but she pulled back. She looked at me, concern etched on her face.

"Mr. Kurogane?" Her voice was low and careful, as though she was attempting to tame a rabid animal.

"Sorry," I said. I berated myself then; I fell for that tale as if I still believed in the boogieman. Detectives had no business in spooky mysteries. "Forget it."

Recalling her curious behavior, I inquired further, "What's the problem?"

I noted the determined glint in her eye. She said, "There is just no way you could have reached the office before me."

"What are you playing at?" I said, looking for any signs of deception. This was not going to be a replay of the Christmas Tree Incident; Miss Tomoyo was not going to trick me twice in a year. My eyes narrowed, but she did not waver. Her face was the perfect image of professionalism.

"Because I just talked to you," she said. Again, she looked out the window, eyes darting back and forth down the sidewalk, looking for answers, as if a sign would pop up any moment.

"What?" She may have just spoken in a foreign language for as well as I understood her.

"I just talked to you on the street. You had a lost, vague expression. I asked how your appointment went, and you just stood there with your mouth open; I was worried that you caught a bug. I gave you your sandwich, pastrami on rye, hold the mayo, and you didn't thank me, not one word. Well, that wasn't too unusual. Afterwards, I walked into the building and found you in your office, dry as a whistle," she said, keeping a constant vigil at the window.

It was the Christmas Tree Incident all over again. My kudos to Miss Tomoyo for being so thorough. I did not see this one coming. How much time did she spend orchestrating this charade? I was a professional detective, a trained bloodhound that could sniff any trail. I would not so easily be deceived, not again. "This is not fooling anyone."

"Mr. Kurogane, please be serious," she said, and I knew this was not a prank. She never held onto a joke after the prank had been revealed. Past experiences with her conditioned me to expect a slight chuckle followed by a modest boast of her own cleverness. If I could rely on nothing else, I could rely on that.

She held the bag for me, crinkling the brown edges open. In the dark recesses of the container laid a single turkey sandwich on wheat, with mustard dripping from its foil wrapper and nothing else. She closed the bag, shielding the depressing sight from view. Then I knew, without a doubt, this was not a prank. Miss Tomoyo, a thorough secretary and a charitable character, would not tamper with a man's meal just for a laugh.

I stood in dead silence. Responses came and died in my throat like so many careless ducks on the range. The thought of another me, walking in my skin, talking in my voice, crawled, bug-like, under my skin. The doppelganger stole my identity, violated a part of me that was sacred, and the scuzzy thief stole my sandwich! I wanted to get rid of it, to wipe the ugly spot off the Earth, and reclaim my identity!

This case just opened up. I would not stand to be made a fool of on the same street of my own business. "Miss Tomoyo, put a call through for me," I said, donning my hat and overcoat. I ran my thumbs under the collar, my mind already on the scene of the crime.

"Take an umbrella with you," she said, halfway to the door, "And who am I placing this call to?"

"…Mr. Fay D. Flourite." My newest client and first suspect.

oOo

This fic is my baby. I entertained the idea of a Film Noir AU for TRC since I finished it because the thought of Kurogane as the detective and Fai as the alluring client with secrets was just too enticing. I sat on this plot bunny for a while, wrote the first draft, but the rest of the plot was foggy, like some sort of gritty analogy. I sat on it for a whi~le. Only recently did I take it out again, and sketched out the rest of the plot.

Just wanted an excuse for Kurogane to narrate, make corny analogies, and be so far in denial that he sailed past Egypt *_shot_*.

Chapter 2

Flourite Suites, even the name set warning bells off in my head. It's proprietor was my recent client.

I chalked one up for suspicion, since nothing else but suspicion could make my heart race like a Kentucky Derby Horse,

Notes:

Hello all. This fic is what I call as part of my "Holy Trinity" of fic. Originally, when I finished TRC and was a young open-eyed artist, I had a few good ideas. Three of those ideas were fic worthy. This was the first. The two other parts of this trinity were, "What Maslow Missed" and "Eudaimonia."


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